


As they Kiss, Consume

by morethanthedark (Kayndred)



Series: In a House by the Sea [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Shipwreckers, Baba Yaga - Freeform, Blood, Blood Magic, Combeferre continues to be the most level-headed, Curses, Fae & Fairies, Families of Choice, Gavroche is a mystery, Grantaire may or may not be losing it, Jehan takes charge, Magic Circles, Mermaids, Miscommunication, Montparnasse isn't nice, Multi, Physical Wounds, Pining Courfeyrac, Pining Enjolras, Prompt Fill, Quests, Swearing, Unseelie, Violence, fae, physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayndred/pseuds/morethanthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly is cursed and falling apart while the group attempts to adapt to the revelation of what Feuilly, Jehan and Grantaire are. In a bid to find the cure for Feuilly’s curse they visit Montarparnasse - but the reality of their situation is far larger than a petty Accord dispute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As they Kiss, Consume

**Author's Note:**

> I present to you Part Two of the Fae-story Sequel. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Titles for all three parts taken from Romeo and Juliet, Act II Scene VI - Friar Lawrence lines nine through eleven:  
> These violent delights have violent ends  
> And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,  
> Which, as they kiss, consume.
> 
> By Order of Appearance:  
> Trigger Warnings for: BLOOD  
> Trigger Warnings for: PHYSICAL VIOLENCE  
> Trigger Warnings For: PHYSICAL WOUNDS
> 
> The above trigger warnings have been tagged for, but I thought it aught to be restated just in case.

It’s a terrifying and gorgeous thing, Jehan’s anger. Rare, also, almost in the extreme, and Grantaire regards it as all the more beautiful and savage for it.

He is like a pillar of marble lit on fire standing there, shielding Grantaire from the gazes and words of their friends, far more a literal avenging angel than he has seen Enjolras be in a long time. He doesn’t have to see Jehan’s face to know the look in his eyes, the set of his mouth, the way his gaze will sweep from person to person, daring them to step up and take him on. People trust Jehan explicitly, implicitly, with everything - Grantaire trusts Jehan with not only his life, but his true name, and if that isn’t a mark of trustworthiness he doesn’t know what is - but Jehan has never trusted them with this, and that is amazing too.

From the slope of his shoulders and the way his hands hang loose at his sides, stance settled wide, he knows Jehan is staring them down. There’s only been one other time in the entirety of their friendship that Grantaire has seen him stand like that - ready to take on the world and everyone in it for something he loves - and the memory brings with it the taste of iron and desperation.

Jehan is speaking again. “You’ve trusted us for years - you trusted us when we turned up at the Cafe, looking like we’d battled with death and barely scraped by, and you trusted us when you wanted to start this shipwrecking venture. You know us, individually and together, and you know that we’d never hurt anyone we care for.” His shoulders relax, and Grantaire steps forward to press his nose against Jehan’s shoulder blade. “You always talk of equality between all peoples - that’s why you extend treaties and accords with fae and human residents. We are both fae.” He is softer now, giving, willing them to understand. Jehan doesn’t need magic to glamour people. “We cannot lie.”

Grantaire grips the hem of Jehan’s shirt, twisting his fingers in and waiting. He doesn’t know if the group is exchanging glances, staring at Jehan in shock, awe, or fear, or what - but the quiet is stifling and clings to him, reminds him of ages and ages spent in the dark, afraid, unaware of anything around him.

Combeferre breaks the silence, low and steady. “Okay.” Grantaire peers out around Jehan’s shoulder, wary, but Combeferre looks collected and, at least, willing to listen.

That’s all Grantaire needs.

He steps out from around Jehan, squaring his shoulders and pointedly looking only between Combeferre, Marius and Bahorel as he speaks. Jehan sits down again, but his hands rest on the chair arms and he looks ready to spring up and stab someone if they interrupt.

“As I said - Feuilly has been cursed. Unfortunately, even though I can feel it, I can’t tell who did it.”

And that rankles - it makes fear twist in his gut, because the possibility that whoever did it is stronger than him is high. “Which means that we’re going to have to ask around and see what our associates know. Until we do, there’s no guarantee that any of us are safe.”

That redirects their attention - everyone in Lightpeak House values their collective safety above almost everything else, and the heavy realization that ‘ _we’re all in danger in the place we should feel most safe_ ’ hangs in the air between them.

Grantaire leans against the side of Jehan’s chair, watching as the rest of the group inverts and begins to chatter among themselves, tossing in and scratching ideas out in quick succession. There’s still tension there, caught up in fleeting glances toward Jehan and Grantaire or in the way they aren’t being looked at, tangled in clenched hands and rapping fingers. It slides across his skin and inward, wrapping around his throat like a noose. This is exactly what they didn’t want, this division in their ranks. It was why they had kept quiet for so long, had sworn to each other that they would never out the entire group, that what they were as individuals was their own secret to share.

Feuilly was the only one to trust another enough to put all of himself on the table, open to scrutiny and rejection. Grantaire and Jehan had held back, contented, for the most part, in their own company, the shared knowledge between them of what they were and how they’d come into living at Lightpeak. They’d tucked into each other while Feuilly had reached out, always more comfortable with a larger family than he and Jehan could provide, and they couldn’t blame him.

But he’d never outed them as a unit, never jeopardized their anonymity for the sake of his relationships, and it makes Grantaire  _burn_ to see him torn apart - literally - because he had dared to trust.

If Grantaire has his way, who ever had done this was going to pay in blood, if not with their life.

“Alright.” It’s Combeferre breaking into his thoughts, making his eyes snap up to meet the other man’s. He looks resigned but determined, like he always does when plans have to be altered at the last minute. He, at least, is a constant in the ever complicated mechanics of Grantaire’s life. “We think it’d be easiest to go the mermaids - both because of proximity, because Feuilly has been looking terrible, and because we’re on good terms with them.”

It’s sound, and about as good as they’re going to get. There are several mermaids that favor them more readily than others, mermaids that would be willing to trade for information.

He just hopes that whatever they get is enough.

—

The walk to the beach is mostly silent, the sun covered by hard grey clouds along the horizon. In the two days since Feuilly received their letter the weather has taken an abrupt cold turn. The wind from the sea is sharp and nippy across their cheeks, sand and salt scratching at their skin.

They troop single file down to the rocks, Grantaire and Jehan leading the way. It’s quiet, solemn, and tense beyond belief - no one speaks, but they watch the two fae leading them with mixed emotions so loud they might as well be yelling.

When they reach the sand only Grantaire steps forward, toeing off his shoes as he goes. Behind him they form a crowd, clumped together like a flock of nervous birds.

He walks until the hems of his pants are soaked, his feet already growing cold from the water, and looks out across the sea toward the murky horizon line, allowing himself to be lulled by the pull of the tide. For a moment he lets the feeling of the wind and the water eliminate everything else, eyes half lidded, heart slow, breathing deep. Oh, how he wants to just dive away, shed his skin and take to the water, forget all these human troubles.

But Feuilly’s face flashes before his eyes, bloody and sallow, sweating out all the moisture in him - Jehan, with his bright understanding eyes and quiet fierceness. The strong arms of Bahorel and Bossuet slung over his shoulders, Courfeyrac’s exuberant exclamations and Marius’ stumbling jokes, Combeferre’s quiet smiles and indulgent eye-rolls, Joly, perpetually patching clothes and cleaning until everything shines.

Enjolras, fire and passion and glory, an angel and a star, equally beautiful and terrible. Enjolras, who makes the world light on fire, who Grantaire has only had smile at him four times, genuinely, who makes the embers in his heart bloom and gutter all at once. Enjolras, who looked at him with such loathing and betrayal. Enjolras - who is still family.

He parts his lips and whistles, short and sharp, three times, before falling quickly through a set of low scales and climbing back up. It’s more complex than the three note call used for signalling the mermaids on missions because it can’t be replicated by a pipe. It’s how Grantaire knows that they know it’s  _him_  asking.

Grantaire has better eyes than Marius, so when Eponine slides up under the water he can see her several inches below the gently lapping waves. Her hair mixes with the sea, black on black, and hovers around her like a nebula. As she rises from the surf and comes up to sit before him on the beach he sees her eyes flicker across the group, curiosity sliding over suspicion. He crouches down so that he’s up to his waist in water, eye to eye with her.

“What do you want?” She asks, doing nothing to disguise the ocean in her words. Eponine spares no corner with anyone, and it’s something Grantaire appreciates, especially now.

“Feuilly’s been cursed.” He says, equally blunt, and her face falls in disbelief. He can read the shadows in her eyes and the hitch of her shoulders - she knew it was true, but didn’t want to believe it, because there are few with the wit enough to hunt them down. “I need to know what you know.”

She collects herself, then, all barter queen, but he can still see her sorrow tucked into the corners of her mouth. She and Feuilly are friends, he knows - the other artist spends almost as much time at the beach as Marius does, only Feuilly spends it with Eponine.

“What are you willing to give me?” She asks, and this is the problem - he can’t guarantee anything long term because there’s no telling if he’ll still be on the coast after this is over. There isn’t a lot that he cares enough about to mean anything as a bargaining chip, and any gifts he’d be able to give her wouldn’t last below the sea - their magics don’t always mesh well.

He’s sliding his thumb nail across his palm before he’s even aware of making the decision, the nail long and black, it’s hook tearing cleaning through his skin. Eponine’s eyes are widening, eyebrows going up her forehead. Her hands form a cup below his bleeding palm, oddly dry for coming out of the ocean, and he stares her down while the blood pools in the wrinkles of his skin.

“Tell me everything you know.” He says, unyielding, and tips his hand over and allows the blood to drop into the bowl of her palms. The cut is already healing, a faint trickle of steam rising from his skin, leaving him unmarred after it is gone.

“When Feuilly told the tall one his name, it was The Wind who heard him.” She says, a shiny crystal sphere forming around his blood from her hands, preserving it. Her eyes are still wide, like she can’t quite believe he gave her his blood. “And The Wind carried it with them, for a long time. Then you redrafted your Accord with the Fallbrook Kelpie.” Ah, and there it is, he thinks. “Montparnasse was not pleased - he liked that you had to pay a larger tithe than he did. He got angry, and sent out his minions to dig up things on you.”

And the rest Grantaire could piece together himself. “And he struck a deal with The Wind, didn’t he? Got Feuilly’s name for something not worth the half of it, I’d bet.” Eponine nods, rolling the orb between her fingers. “And now Feuilly is cursed, and we have to deal with Montparnasse’s magic. Fantastic.”

Eponine nods again, smooth and too liquid to be human. She never casts away her strangely beautiful, alien appearance - her eyes are sharply silver and her scales shine in the dull light - but he can still see the hesitance in her, despite her inhumanity. There’s something else. He narrows his eyes at her, shifts in the water because he’s cold as hell, and whispers on a level that only Jehan will be able to hear, “What else is there?”

Something like regret dulls her expression, but she says, “Cosette told Marius that you - Feuilly, Jehan and you - were fae. I don’t know if it means anything - Feuilly told the tall one a while ago, but I’d be careful anyway.”

He nods, lips pursed, and struggles into a standing position, limbs stiff and cold, says, “Thank you.” The sun is almost entirely gone, what little light there is falling flatly through a layer of clouds. Eponine bows her head to him as she slides back into the water, and he bows at the waist until he’s sure she’s gone.

Turning to face the group is one of the hardest things he’s ever done, and not just because everything below the waist is numb and uncoordinated. But he does, and the looks on everyone’s faces range from curiosity to a frantic sort of worry.

“It was The Wind.” He says, trudging up the beach. He hasn’t started to shiver yet, that’s good. “When Feuilly told Bahorel his true name The Wind was there, who the fuck knows why. But it heard.” He casts a glance at Bahorel in time to see the devastation stash itself away, replaced by stony resolve.

Jehan wraps an arm around his shoulders, tucking him in close to his side. “Anything else?” He asks, but he already knows - it’s only everyone else who’s out of the loop.

“Montparnasse got his name from The Wind.” It comes out a little rushed, but his legs are starting to smart and tingle, and his teeth are beginning to chatter. “Traded it for something worth shit, probably, and cursed him.”

There’s a lot of muttering, then, that he doesn’t pay attention to as they make their way back up to the house. Jehan is rubbing between his shoulders, kissing his temple and keeping him close. He doesn’t emit nearly enough heat to adequately stave off the cold, but his contact is more comforting than anything else could hope to be.

“It’ll be okay.” He whispers, lips in Grantaire’s hair. “We’re more than enough for ‘Parnasse’s magic.”

He hums, turns his face into Jehan’s arm, and allows himself to be guided into the house.

—

Watching Grantaire trade blood for information with Eponine makes something bitter twist in Enjolras stomach, stacked right on top of the other emotional knot created by the night’s events. He wants to grab the other man’s hand and make sure the cut is gone, he wants to ask how he did it without a knife, he wants to punch him in the face.

He wants to be the one to wrap his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and rub his arms when they get back to the house.

But that’s Jehan, Jehan touching him, telling him to run upstairs and change into warm clothing, Jehan going up a different staircase and leaving them all to mill about behind them.

He, Combeferre and Courfeyrac gravitate together naturally, some subconscious thing telling them that they need to discuss with each other. Courfeyrac looks stricken, like he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the image of Jehan standing before them and proclaiming himself other. For all Enjolras knows, he might be.

Combeferre rests a hand on each of their shoulders, drawing their attention to him. In contrast to everyone else - everyone not Jehan or Grantaire - Combeferre seems to actually know what’s going on and how he plans on being involved.

“We can’t allow this to change anything.” He says, and Enjolras’ mouth snaps open to argue but he silences him with a look. “Not now. Feuilly is a member of our household who is severely hurt. Our top priority is getting him out of this.” He looks between them, firm and serious. “Which means that we are going to put aside how we feel about the three of them being fae so that we can help Jehan and Grantaire with whatever they need us to do to fix this, alright?”

Enjolras wants to argue - wants to yell and punch things and stomp his feet, to demand answers and interrogate until he gets them. But that’s a temper tantrum, something he hasn’t allowed himself to indulge in since he was young and still living with his parents. It won’t do any good to rile up everyone and start arguments when Feuilly has, apparently, been seriously cursed.

And by  _Mont-fucking-parnasse_ , no less. There, at least, is an outlet that Enjolras can direct his rage and frustration at that is actually deserving. Montparnasse has been a thorn in their side since before they officially set up their home in Lightpeak and their shops in the ship towns, and it’s about time that they’ve actually gone after him.

“Alright?” Combeferre repeats, a little more firm, and he realizes that he’s the only one to not have answered - Courfeyrac is looking at him with a quirked brow, like he’s waiting for Enjolras’ argument against dealing with their most immediate problem.

He nods, and that’s confirmation enough, because Combeferre nods decisively back before dropping his hands and leaning against the wall to pinch the bridge of his nose above his glasses. “What a day.”

Courfeyrac snorts and Enjolras lets out a huff of amusement he didn’t know he had, and that’s the time that Jehan and Grantaire descend the stairs almost at the same time. Jehan’s arms are laden with towels and wash things, while Grantaire has changed into a work shirt and old pants, and something flashes darkly between his fingers before he slips it into his pocket.

Enjolras doesn’t know if he’s more curious or suspicious.

“We need to clean up Feuilly.” Jehan says, striding across the floor. “I got all our old towels and a couple of blankets that no one uses, and our least offensive soaps.”

There’s some unspoken command that gets everyone to follow him back into the washroom, a place that, until then, Enjolras had had the vague feeling that he needed to stay away from. From the look on almost everyone else’s faces, he wasn’t the only one.

And when his gaze alights on Feuilly he can see why.

The smaller man is sitting with his head hung low, bloody and crusted with scabs, as appealing as death warmed over. His hair is lank and clumpy looking, and there are flecks of blood all down his arms and fingers.

It takes him a moment to see that the blood is black, and that the grey shadows on Feuilly’s neck and arms aren’t really shadows but skin discolorations.

Jehan, Grantaire and Bahorel move forward first, tutting and touching him, the most heartbreaking whimpers pouring from his lips as they do. Jehan looks over his shoulder at the group and quirks a brow, says, “Well, let’s get going people! Joly, take Combeferre and gather medical supplies, please, and take them to the dining room. Bossuet, take Marius into my dry cellar and gather up all the candles and that grey-blue salt we import from Crow’s Grip. Courfeyrac, Enjolras, go move the dining room furniture around, we’ll need the space.”

It’s startling, Jehan being so assertive, but no more startling than anything else that night, and everyone moves off to do their jobs while the other three tend to Feuilly.

The dining room is a room Enjolras has always seen as a little frivolous, primarily because it’s so large. They have a huge table with chairs to match, candelabras and wall sconces, and place settings fit for twenty. It’s almost obscene. There are sculpted moldings everywhere, and one wall is entirely windows, crafted in dramatic arches and designs that Enjolras can’t name - he thinks Grantaire and Feuilly mentioned something called Mucha once, although he can’t for the life of him remember what they were talking about. But the overall effect is a mosaic of stained glass windows and hardwood flooring, dramatic ceiling paintings and elaborate corner sculptures. He hates it, hates what it represents and what it means, and finds it unnecessary.

But the space it provides, however, is not.

They end up sliding the table and chairs to one side of the hall so that they can sweep the area, following Jehan and Grantaire’s instructions to the letter. Feuilly gets settled in the middle of the space, and they put Jehan’s weird dust, his candles, the river stones with unusual colors and one suspiciously warm feather, around him, working in a rotating spiral.

When they are done Grantaire and Jehan start lighting the candles from opposite sides of the circle, Jehan with matches while Grantaire snaps his fingers on the wick, and the shadows cast by the fire turn their faces in feral masks. The way the light catches their eyes makes something in Enjolras want to shy away from them, joining the others in a cluster against the table watching the procession.

“You’re going to have to step forward.” Grantaire says when he’s finished, standing at the candle Jehan lit first. He curls his fingers in their direction, beckoning them forward, and Bahorel moves to take his hand. Something sizzles when Grantaire laces his fingers through the taller man’s, something that reminds Enjolras of why they reinforce their wards on Samhain and Imbolc. The air crackles at him as more and more of his friends join the circle, like the whole world is waiting in anticipation for what’s about to happen.

It goes on like that until only Enjolras is left standing outside the circle, looking at his friends like he doesn’t know them, the only space available the one directly to the right of Grantaire, and he’s moving into it without even really realizing it, his steps strangely silent on the wood flooring.

Grantaire’s hands are warm and dry when he slides his fingers together with the other man’s, calloused and a little scarred, and through the fabric of his shirt he can see the shadows of his tattoo.

It feels right to take Grantaire’s hand.

—

There’s fire in his chest, swimming in his veins and pulling at his edges. He feels like lightning, like thunder, like a storm shredding across the water, whipping the sea into a frenzy. He wants to leap from his skin and tear the house down, wants to  _find the fucker who cursed Feuilly and skin them alive, lay waste to their holdings until nothing is left, until the only thing standing in the ashes is Grantaire himself, fire-covered and unafraid._

He doesn’t see that the flames on the candles are burning unnaturally high - and blue - until Jehan tuts at him and snaps out a, “Not now, Grantaire,” in the Compulsion Voice, knocking him out of his trance and making him aware that he’s gripping Bahorel and Enjolras like lifelines. He tears his gaze away from the flames around him and smiles sheepishly. Jehan just snorts.

The flames sputter and get lower, turning yellow again, and Jehan looks across the group, meeting eyes, nodding, squeezing the fingers of Joly and Combeferre on either side of him, projecting an air of confidence that Grantaire tries to imitate. This isn’t their first rodeo after all.

“No matter what you hear,” he says, and this is the Jehan that frightens Grantaire sometimes, the one who commands without magic, the one who is all of Enjolras’ determination and passion but with an edge fit to cut clean through bone. A new type of terror because this is  _Jehan,_ and not their fearless leader. “No matter what you see, no matter what you feel - you do not let go of the people you’re holding onto. Do you understand?”

There’s a ripple of nods, like the silence after Jehan’s speaking is sacred, and he smiles at them, all bright and human-Jehan, and he says, “Then let’s begin!” and starts speaking in a language Grantaire hasn’t allowed himself to use outside of whispered conversations in almost a dozen years.

—

Jehan loves the feel of magic on his skin, curious and untamed. It’s rare that he and Grantaire indulge in a proper use, what with so much of their concentration spent on maintaining their human disguises.

A wind picks up inside the room, even though none of the windows are open and the door to the dining hall has been closed. It sounds like the sliding of leaves over a paved road, like a thousand voices whispering the secrets of the universe against his skin. Pressure builds across his chest, warm and uncertain, and there’s a collective sigh of relief when it pulses outward, spreading a fine net of blue over the group, blanketing Feuilly in a calming light.  

There are a lot of things Jehan could use his magic for, and a lot of things he does - but there are even more things he doesn’t do, which means that when he  _does_  whip it out to do something big, it’s always an adventure.

He draws it up out of himself like he’s spinning wool, funneling it into a single focus point -  _Remove the curse from Feuilly_. Specifics are always important with fae magic, and Jehan knows this better than most. Make the statement too broad - fix Feuilly - and he could ruin him for the rest of his existence. Make it too specific - cut Feuilly’s hair - and a single hair on Feuilly’s head might slice in half.

So, specifics.

He doesn’t think about Montparnasse, doesn’t think about Grantaire, doesn’t think  _vengeance, bloodshed, retribution_  - he visualizes only Feuilly, strong, whole, smiling, unhindered by thick black scabs and oozing blood. Feuilly, healthy, loyal, loving, fierce.

The magic reaches out, a probing idea, spreading across the net connecting Jehan to everyone else, clinging to them like static.

When the circle pulls at him, a fishhook in his chest, he can feel each spark individually, a tiny candle when compared to his and Grantaire’s. Grantaire’s magic burns brightest, the embodiment of fire, a towering inferno hidden behind a sheltered flame. His friends burn a rainbow into his eyes, electric and living, and it makes it all the worse when he directs his Sight to Feuilly, lying on the floor, his magic dripping off him like oil.

The curse crackles around him like an angry red viper, coiled heavily around his chest and head, it’s eyes an angry, venomous green.

He doesn’t like the look of it, and, from the frustrated pulse from across the circle, neither does Grantaire. He can see the afterimage of the artist twisting like a possessed ribbon behind his human fore-image, hissing and furious. Jehan extends the arm of his own afterimage out to tear at the curse, to lift away and bind it to something else. There’s a twist to it that he doesn’t like, that he wants to erase from Feuilly and smash into oblivion, but that can’t be done until it’s off, uprooted like a particularly poisonous weed.

But the curse-viper hisses and lashes out at him, eyes snapping and fangs out, barely missing Jehan’s extended fingers. The wave of disease that pulses out from it makes him gasp and draw his hand back, startled. It reeks of Montparnasse, true, but the malevolence rooted in it’s creation, an ill will that clogs his throat and brings tears to his eyes - Montparnasse can’t conjure up something like that, something almost ageless and well grown as this is. The curse makes him ache in his bones, memories of derision and spite bubbling in his mind.

The curse-viper sinks into Feuilly’s chest until only it’s eyes remain, and although Jehan wants to lunge forward and rip the thing from Feuilly’s body and destroy it, there’s nothing he can do.

This is a problem.

—

When Jehan closes down the circle with a hissed word Combeferre doesn’t understand he can feel the magic snap across his skin. There’d been a moment where he’d thought he’d seen things - a jagged red line wrapped around Feuilly while a lump of grey rested at his side, a long, slithering and enraged shadow with sharp eyes behind Grantaire, a tall, horned figure behind Jehan.

And then the magic was unfocusing, pulling away, and he saw that it was because Jehan had twisted something thin and green around his fingers, releasing them from the strange, warm tug that had made Combeferre feel like he could hear everyone’s heartbeat. But soon even that was gone.

They step back almost as one, and Combeferre watches Grantaire drag himself from the circle and storm out of the room, a door down the hall slamming. He watches Enjolras’ face shift from awestruck to concerned, hand still outstretched toward Grantaire from where the artists hand separated from his. What follows is a moment of tense silence while everyone stares after him, broken only when a thunderous roar shakes the house, rattling Combeferre’s teeth and his glasses. Somewhere, something falls with a low thud.

“I couldn’t break the curse.” Jehan says, frowning after Grantaire. He looks drawn and worn, and Combeferre can read the subtle, creeping desperation in the lines around his mouth, the viscous calculation in his eyes. It’s interesting and enlightening, seeing Jehan outside of his normal exuberant and moderately carefree attitude. Seeing him focused, seeing him lead - it’s striking. It makes Combeferre wonder how much of any of them he knows.

Grantaire reenters the room literally steaming - wafts of it curl from his lips and the exposed skin of his hands, and his face is, briefly, tinged grey. He strides across the floor to Jehan, sparing a glance for Enjolras as he goes, and Combeferre watches as their gazes seem to cling to each other, even as Grantaire moves away.

He descends on Jehan in a flurry of hisses and clicks, and when he pushes his fingers through his hair blue arcs of static dance across the curls. He looks like someone trapped a force of nature in an ill-fitting human suit, and the seams are starting to unravel.  

“I know, I saw it too.” Jehan says, and Grantaire pulls up short, startled, and then his shoulders hitch up - sheepish, as though he didn’t recognize he wasn’t speaking a tongue all of them knew.

“Saw what?” Bahorel asks, and Grantaire and Jehan trade a look that speaks volumes in a language Combeferre is only beginning to realize exists.

Grantaire snorts smoke out his nose, aggressive shapes taking brief form in the vague, wavering streams. “Saw the curse’s Maker’s Mark, if you will. Magic gets slapped around a lot when it’s being made, which leaves a sort of ‘fingerprint’ that you can identify it by.” He snaps his fingers, blue flame sparking up between his skin like a candle before creeping down his hand and wrapping around his fingers as a snake. “This little bitty basically screams ‘Grantaire’, for example. I favor reptiles, fire, and reptiles made of fire - and, because the magic is from me, it has my fingerprint, my Maker’s Mark.”

The snake flares purple before disappearing into a puff of smoke, and Bossuet claps once  appreciatively.

“What does that mean for Feuilly?” Joly asks, and behind Bahorel and Bossuet look from Feuilly, breathing slowly on the floor, hopefully asleep and not dying, to Grantaire.

The smoke coming out of Grantaire’s nose turns black, and he says, “What it means for Feuilly is that he’s still cursed, because the fingerprint on the magic isn’t Montparnasse’s, we don’t know whose it is, and neither of us can break it.”

That strikes everyone silent, speculative and afraid, and Combeferre can _feel_  the moral of the group drop. Their faces and shoulders droop, eyes downcast and touches desperate as they cluster together at one edge of the circle. Feuilly’s breath comes in slow, sleep-like sighs, but Combeferre can see the grey creeping across his chest and arms, and the dark hair that follows it.

“Well we can’t go out tonight,” Enjolras says, drawing their attention back into focus. He looks like whatever he’s thinking of saying is going to be ill received. “First of all, it’s too late, we can’t risk travelling anywhere at this time of the night, especially when we’ll probably have to take Feuilly with us. Secondly, if we go anywhere now we won’t be in top form, which we’ll probably need to be.”

Everyone turns to look at Jehan and Grantaire, their unusual leaders in this endeavor. They look from Enjolras to Feuilly to each other, frowning. It almost feels like Grantaire is going to argue against it, but then he’s yawning smoke, and Jehan looks concerned.

“Yes, we’ll wait. Tomorrow we’ll set out to see Montparnasse.” He says, eyeing Grantaire critically. “Let’s lock up, then.”

There’s a hesitancy then - no one wants to leave Feuilly asleep on the floor, still cursed and in pain. Bossuet and Marius leave first, followed soon after by Joly and Bahorel, and then Jehan, who spares a lingering look for Grantaire and Enjolras and a nod to Combeferre.

Grantaire has moved to kneel by Feuilly, fingers brushing through hair and murmuring quiet nothings in the other language, shoulders bowed with a weight Combeferre can’t imagine.

Enjolras has yet to move from his place outside the circle, gaze directed to Grantaire and Feuilly even though his attention appears to me miles away. He starts a little when Combeferre comes around to him and rests a hand on his shoulder, tilting his head toward the door once Enjolras meets his eyes. He looks confused, like he doesn’t understand why Combeferre would want him to leave, but he moves anyway, casting one final look over his shoulder at the hunched figure on the floor before closing the door behind him.

“Go lock up the bedrooms.” He says, and Enjolras nods absently before climbing the staircase.

Combeferre sighs, already dreading whatever events lay in their future, and goes to find a candle.

—

It’s by no specific design that everyone ends up sleeping in the dining hall, a carpet of softly snoring, twitching bodies around a cocooned Feuilly. Grantaire had been adamant about not moving him, although he wouldn’t say why and allowed the circle to be cleaned up. He’d just gotten this look in his eye like he was tired and desperate and he’d fight them to keep Feuilly there on the floor.

So they’d conceded to him, bundled Feuilly up, and then been entirely unsurprised when Grantaire had dragged one of their travel mattresses and a mountain of blankets down the stairs and to Feuilly’s side. After that, it seemed like everyone elected to sleep in their seldom used dining hall, connected in a sprawling mess of limbs and blankets. From across the room Enjolras can hear the gentle rasp of Combeferre’s breath against the pillow, the sonorous rumble of Bahorel’s snoring, the alternating sighs of Marius, Joly and Bossuet.

Grantaire and Jehan are quiet as the grave, and he doesn’t know if that means that they’re asleep or just lying there, tucked against Feuilly and as unable to sleep as he is.

If this is what they’re like every night then he knows why they share rooms only with each other - it’s sort of creepy.

But then again, Enjolras is the only one, that he knows of, who can’t sleep.

He’s lying on his back with his hands over his chest, staring at the paintings on the ceiling and wondering who, if anyone, had time enough to paint like that, bent backwards with tiny detail brushes in hand, a pallet on their chest and reading glasses perched precariously on their nose - sliding backward with sweat the longer they stay up in the heat, dark curls sticking to their neck and forehead - oh. Oh.

It’d been Grantaire, the first summer they’d spent building the house, before they’d been able to live in it. Grantaire, constructing scaffolding out of wood and wire and things Enjolras didn’t want to know about - bent backward or laying down, Jehan delivering him water through a pulley system while Feuilly carved the moldings.

Grantaire, who’d held his hand in the circle and felt like fire when the magic had snapped over them.

At first he hadn’t understood what Jehan had meant - what could he possibly see or hear that someone else in the circle would not? - and had stared unblinking at Feuilly for as long as he could, willing the other man to shake off the hurt and the curse and stand up, smiling and bright, and say that everything was okay.

But he hadn’t seen anything more than a red blur hovering over and around the redhead, had barely noticed the tall, fuzzy shadow behind Jehan. He’d seen nothing, originally. Oh, had he felt things though.

The moment the magic net bound them together heat had burst across his side, licking up his arm and across his torso, like someone had trapped a fire in his skin. It hadn’t hurt, had barely tickled in fact, but it felt - different. It didn’t feel like fire, or the prickling heat felt when too close to the stove. It was just warm, and aware, and that’s what made him turn and look to his left.

Beside him, Grantaire was alight.

The flames curled over him, blowing his hair back and up, like wind, fluttering the loose hems of his pants and the baggy fabric of his shirt. His eyes were lit with it, flickers of blue dancing along his lashes while ribbons of silver flutter from his parted lips. He was staring at Feuilly, the hand holding Enjolras’ a vice around his fingers, but he didn’t care. Grantaire was beautiful, lit up like a falling star, and even the great, writhing, serpentine shadow that had it’s claws hooked over Grantaire’s shoulders couldn’t detract from that.

Shivering, the shadow twisted and pulled around him, hissing sparks the color of blood, eyes slitted and angry. Its tail lashed and heat poured off it in waves, and Enjolras couldn’t stop staring.

It turned one hot copper eye on him, pupil contracted down to a pinprick, and, quick as lightning, a red streak flickered out from it’s mouth and across the length of Enjolras’ face, from chin to hairline.

Even bundled up as he is, settled at Courfeyrac’s side, the memory makes him shiver.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

—

Grantaire is the first to wake up.

It’s not yet dawn - no one else is up, not even Combeferre, and he can hear everyone’s breathing from his place at Feuilly’s side, even Jehan’s gentle, hummingbird quick inhalations.

But he can’t  _see_ anything, and that’s weird.

At first he thinks that something has fallen across his face, a blanket maybe, before he realizes that it’s his arm - grey and scaly, warmer than the rest of him, and dry as the desert.

He lifts his arm from his face, frowning down at the claw tipped fingers, the shadowed scales, the  _itchiness_  of it all. Fear and disgust war with frightening hatred in his stomach, all too aware of what the burn below his scales means.

A thin, warbling keen bubbles at the back of his throat, and he buries his face in the crook of his elbow.

His skin smells like ash.

—

The group rises slowly in layers, much like normal. Combeferre staggers to his feet first, focus bleary and awkward without his glasses. His shuffling inspires movement from Courfeyrac and Enjolras, equally early risers, and the three of them move from the dining room to the kitchen with only caffeine in their immediate future.

It’s the scent of freshly ground coffee that brings Joly and Marius from unconsciousness, and with Joly rises Bossuet. Marius shoves at Bahorel in passing. The other man doesn’t rise for several minutes, snoring blissfully against Feuilly’s side until Jehan elbows him in the stomach, and the both of them grapple against gravity until they are upright and moving slowly into the kitchen, where the sizzling of breakfast has joined the wafting smell of coffee.

Only Feuilly remains on the floor, turned slightly to the left in sleep, skin more naturally colored than it had been the night before, some of the discoloration having receded.

Two floors above the gradually waking group, Grantaire sits on the floor of their tub, shower running. His fingers are pressed against the exposed piping that leads to the shower-head, the water heating quickly under his influence. It’s awkward, having one arm stretched up over the lip of the bath, fingers brushing against the copper. The muscles in his back and shoulder ache with the angle of it, but he can’t be bothered to move.

He’s too busy watching tiny scales flake off and wash down the drain, turning the swirl of water grey in their wake.

He doesn’t feel any different, is the thing. He can see the scales peeling off of his shoulder and arm, and a little from his side, where the skin beneath is an angry reddish-grey, but it doesn’t hurt and that’s _frightening_.

The rest of the shower is spent carefully washing the loose scales away while going about his normal bathing routine, unaware of the tears being lost to the spray.

—

Feuilly doesn’t wake up during breakfast, nor during the hours following. By the time the laundry’s been done and the morning’s dishes put away it looks as though he’s going to sleep the entire day away, an idea that brings a frown to Jehan’s face and makes Grantaire rub restlessly at the joint of his wrists under the long sleeves of his shirt.

“We can’t all go.” Combeferre says, cradling a cup of hot coffee in his hands. No one has to ask him what he’s talking about. “We can’t leave Feuilly alone, and no one person can go.”

“We’re going.” Jehan pipes up, an arm slung around Grantaire’s shoulders. They look tired, Grantaire more grey than not, and he keeps closing his eyes for long periods of time, only to open them and stare at nothing for an equally long time.

“I’m going too.” Courfeyrac blurts, looking flushed but determined. At Jehan’s curious head tilt and Combeferre’s arched brow he scoffs, says, “What, like you’re going to keep me home when there’s an actual _adventure_  going on? Please. If I can’t be a real pirate - sorry Enjolras - then I’m gonna be a quest piece to some fae eye-candy.” He gives a lascivious wink that has Jehan turning pink and hiding his face in Grantaire’s hair. The artist just looks bemused before his eyes close again for another long blink.

“And we’re going.” Enjolras says, a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. He was going anyway, of course, but he likes that Enjolras has decided to come with them. “As representatives for Lightpeak house.” Ah, of course.

“We drafted the new Accord.” Grantaire says, and it sounds like he’s been working in the chimneys again, throat scratchy and raw sounding. He doesn’t cough, but Jehan rubs his back and presses his lips against his hair, eyes narrowed over his head. “You may have mailed ‘Chetta, but we wrote it. You don’t have to go.”

Enjolras looks torn between frustrated and the desire to pull Grantaire against his chest and pet his hair, and Combeferre knows that the blond is worried but he’s also flailing emotionally, so he says, “We allowed it. And let you weasel your way into the official blessed wax,” Jehan looks entirely unrepentant, “so we have to be there.”

Grantaire opens his eyes and meets his gaze, curious but not enough so to raise the point. “Whatever you want. If we’re leaving then Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet and Marius are staying back. We can’t have both medical students with us, Bahorel won’t leave Feuilly, and I’m wary of leading Marius and Bossuet into fae territory.”

The group nods, scattered about the kitchen as they are, and disperse.

Before he has a chance to leave, Combeferre catches Enjolras’ wrist, making the other man frown at him. It had looked like he was moving after Jehan to talk to Grantaire, and Combeferre wanted to make certain he knew what he was doing.

“I know you’re worried about him, but I don’t think now’s the best time to go confront him on an emotional level. Neither of you are in a good place at the moment.” He tilts his eyebrows imploringly, knowing that Enjolras won’t be able to say no to his request. He doesn’t have to be fae to be persuasive.

Enjolras opens his mouth, but closes it quickly and bobs his head.

“When this is over.” He says, and Combeferre nods.

—

Montparnasse lives in a remarkably well put together shack in the side of a hill, which would look charming and maybe even pretty in the dappled light from the pre-noon sun, if Enjolras didn’t know that it was _Montparnasse_  living inside.

“Whatever you do, don’t let him touch you.” Jehan says while Grantaire knocks three times on the door and then steps widely back. He looks like he’s smelled something bad, nose scrunched up and brows pinched. Grantaire’s shoulders are flat and stiff, and their general air is that they would really rather not be here.

Enjolras shares the feeling.

There’s a long moment where he doesn’t think anyone is going to answer, maybe because Montparnasse is out - or he just doesn’t want to see them. Either way, he’s almost gotten to the point where he’s going to suggest they just leave, or come back with a couple iron pokers, when there door rattles twice and then swings grandly open.

Montparnasse is not what he was expecting.

He’s slim, of average height, with narrow shoulders and bony hands. His collar bones jut from the open vee of his shirt, the laces hanging open. The light glances off his eyes, a forgettable, in between color when paired with his startlingly red lips. A long, unlit bone pipe hangs from the corner of his mouth at a jaunty angle, although he can’t tell what the carving is.

“Why R, Jean, I didn’t think you’d bring  _guests_.” He says, oil slick voice raising goosebumps on Enjolras’ skin. Because of course he knew that they would come to find him,  _of course_.

Grantaire rolls his shoulders into a shrug, and Enjolras really wants to see his face. “We were told you knew something about our good friend Feuilly.” He says, carefully neutral.

‘Parnasse laughs, pipe bobbing in his mouth. “Oh, the  _little dog_.” It’s a term Enjolras has heard Bahorel and Grantaire use when referring or talking to Feuilly, but the way Montparnasse says it makes it sound like something degrading. “Yes, it’s about time my little gift reached him, isn’t it?”

“So you don’t deny it.” Jehan says, all cordial malice and smiling aggression. ‘Parnasse shrugs.

“Beautiful little thing, isn’t it? Who would deny that.” He looks so proud of himself, like harming Feuilly is something that brings him satisfaction. “Now when do you think the others will arrive?”

Both Jehan and Grantaire go stiff in a heartbeat, and Courfeyrac asks, “What do you mean, ‘the others’?”

The other fae’s mouth is a harsh twist of red, mesmerizing, and he tilts his head while he eyes them critically. He looks between them, from Combeferre’s stoic poker face, Courfeyrac’s tentative curiosity, Enjolras’ guarded anger. He can’t see more than the side of Jehan’s face, and none of Grantaire’s, but both are tense and radiating fury.

Realization dawns bright and cruel across his face, the light in his eyes blatantly joyful at their ignorance.

“Oh, you don’t know. You haven’t told them?” He directs the second part at the fae among them, lips curled and wicked. “I can smell it on you from _here_ , I bet half the forest can, and you haven’t -”

Grantaire’s arm flashes out, fingers wrapping around ‘Parnasse’s collar and jerking him out of the doorway, flinging him toward the murky pond that edges the path to his house. “We know it wasn’t you who made the curse.” He spits, and there might be sparks at the corners of his mouth, but Enjolras can’t be sure.

Montparnasse staggers, arms windmilling, stepping backward more when Grantaire takes a step toward him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That curse is mine - you’d know that if you’d bothered to check the Makers Mark right.”

“We did.” Jehan says, joining Grantaire in standing before him. “We checked, and it wasn’t yours.”

‘Parnasse scoffs, tossing his hair and jutting out a hip. “It was mine, your magic is flawed.”

“ _You’re flawed!_ ” Grantaire spits, and this time there is fire coming from his mouth, the visible skin of his neck and arms dark grey against the pale green of his shirt. “That curse isn’t yours and you know it! Tell us who gave it to you!” The tone of his voice is sharp and angry, but the pitch rattles Enjolras’ teeth in his head and a flock of birds erupts from a nearby tree, crying out in surprise. He looks ready to rip Montparnasse apart, and it startles the group when a line of fire burns through one of his shirt sleeves.

The laugh that crawls out of Montparnasse’s mouth makes Courfeyrac and Combeferre step closer to Enjolras and Jehan, ready to spring forward and drag Grantaire away.

“Oh, look at you!” He crows, arms wrapping around his sides and tilting forward with his laughter. His hair falls over his shoulders in a wave of curls, and from beneath it’s curtain his eyes glitter maliciously. “Already falling apart! How long have you had it, then? How many scales are gone now, how many things have you lit on fire? What else will you  _destroy_ -”

Grantaire is on him in a heartbeat, a blur of curls and and trailing sparks that tackles Montparnasse into the soft dirt that makes up the banks of the pond. There’s a slick crunching noise when the other fae smacks against the ground, accompanied by vicious snarling from the artist, sparks and fire falling from his lips while steam forms where his skin meets the damp ground.

“ _Don’t touch him Grantaire!_ ” Jehan cries, stepping forward, hand out as though to pull the man back. But Grantaire doesn’t listen, and no one moves to stop him.

He scrambles up on top of the other fae, sitting squarely on his chest, knees pinning his arms as he hunches over Montparnasse’s face. Snarling and guttural growls break from his lips, and whatever he’s saying makes their host thrash and cry out on the ground.

The first punch flies without Enjolras seeing it, but a sharp crack sends a shiver down his spine. Grantaire raises his other fist, dropping it heavily, apparently connecting with Montparnasse’s face if the the fleshy smack is anything to go by.

“Why shouldn’t he touch him?” Courfeyrac whispers, watching their friend lean over to whisper something sharp in the pinned man’s ear.

“‘Parnasse is a Gancanagh - a love talker.” Jehan says back, eyes never leaving the pair. “There’s magic in his skin, like a toxin - it makes him addictive. Men and women have died for want of his touch, both from withdrawal and by each other’s hand.”

Combeferre’s eyes narrow while Courfeyrac gasps, and Enjolras feels his lungs tighten at the thought - Grantaire, caught in addiction to someone like ‘Parnasse’s skin, going mad with it, dying because of it.

Grantaire’s hand connects with Montparnasse’s face again, and then he just doesn’t stop.

It feels like an eternity of listening the Gancanagh whimper and beg, crying out in languages none but maybe Jehan can understand every time Grantaire’s fist meets his skin. Jehan watches worriedly from the sidelines, gnawing on his lip, eyes bright. It’s him who calls out, like a question, “Grantaire”, and it’s his voice the other man stops for.

He stands jerkily, like his limbs are made of wood, and when he turns around swampy green blood speckles his hands and arms. His eyes are glassy and his hands shake, and Enjolras thinks he sees long silver-black claws curling from dark grey fingers.

His forearms are the color of charcoal where his sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows, and his tattoos look strange on the grey skin. Grantaire stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, eyes sliding over the groups faces. When he meets Enjolras gaze he snags, something like shame clouding his face, and he goes pale as he looks away.

“He’s got nothing to say.” He rumbles, voice like glass and gravel. Behind him Montparnasse gurgles and wheezes.

“I didn’t make it.” He rasps, spitting to the side. “I didn’t make it but I Swore, _I Swore_ ,” a cough rips out of him, and Enjolras would feel worse if Feuilly weren’t sleeping off the effects of the curse in their dining-room.  “I wouldn’t tell. You know how that works,” and then he slurs something that makes Jehan grip Grantaire’s shoulder like a vice.

They leave in silence, and no one looks back.

—

Feuilly isn’t awake when they get back, and no one asks how it went. He doesn’t know if it’s the looks on their faces or the green stains on Grantaire’s shirt and the drawn blankness of his eyes, but Enjolras is thankful either way.

“Go take a bath.” Jehan says, pushing Grantaire towards the stairs. He stumbles but moves away, feet dragging up the steps.

“… Now what?” Marius asks from his place by Bossuet. Joly and Bahorel have taken up residence beside Feuilly.

Jehan and Combeferre look at each other, brittle and determined the both of them, and Combeferre says, “Now, we network.”

—

The web of connections that Lightpeak house has is not inconsiderable, but as the week after the Montparnasse debacle wears on into the next week, and the next, it feels like there aren’t enough people to contact. At the beginning they are already kneecapped by the elimination of their informants who know nothing of fae magic, or who lack fae connections. Enjolras prides himself on cultivating all manners of tolerant informers, but there are those they know who know nothing, and that’s problematic.

Daily Jehan leaves the house and plunges headlong into the forest, hunting down fae who may have the information they need. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac pour over contacts, writing letters and telegrams that Bossuet, Marius and Bahorel run into town.

Grantaire becomes a shadow existing only in the dining room, heard showering or locked up in his studio, regularly shaking the windows with small explosions and clouds of colored smoke. Sometimes he might be seen from a window taking long, slow paced turns on the beach or down the hill.

He never goes into the water or bridges the tree line, but the intent is there. Sometimes the smoke rising from his mouth and nose can be seen from the attic, and they use it to track his position down the hill. When he takes to the beach Eponine can be seen rising from the waves to talk, but no one can hear what they say. While Bahorel and Marius are received with something like melancholy silence, Combeferre, Bossuet, Jehan and Joly inspire hissing and burnt clothes, flashing eyes and scores of claw marks in wood. It’s their calm, their willingness to comfort, that sends him disappearing on long walks along the country, burning tracks of grass in his wake. 

But Enjolras - Enjolras riles him up like nothing else. He tries for comforting and comes off stilted, which Grantaire takes as pity. He doesn’t want pity, from anyone, and he snaps at Enjolras to turn his pity into anger. Grantaire’s aggression and his own inability to articulate himself frustrate Enjolras, and he bites out sharp retorts in response to Grantaire’s acidic defense.

And then they start yelling. Eyes flashing and hands balled into fists, the both of them - the wood beneath Grantaire’s bare feet blackens and his hair crackles with static, and Enjolras pretends not to be apprehensive, frightened even, of the fire that wraps around his friend like a living thing.

Grantaire will spin away and stalk through the house, Enjolras charging heatedly after him, and between them the tension in the halls will rocket up until Grantaire slams his way out the door and down to the beach, Enjolras left fuming behind him, their friends pointedly ignoring the both of them.

Three weeks pass.

Four.

Feuilly doesn’t worsen, but he doesn’t wake, and the longer he remains removed from them the worse the house feels.

In silence, Jehan’s hair begins to turn black. He covers his quickly browning skin and his blackening nails with long sleeves and gloves.

When his teeth begin to sharpen into points, he knows - they are running out of time.

—

He comes with the sunset, a ball of fire rocketing up the hill from the forest to their house, impacting on the front porch in a swirl faerie light. Courfeyrac is the one who sees him, shouting in surprise when the ball of light coalesces into the form of a little boy.

“Jehan!” The boy shouts, banging on their door. His knocks rattle the windows, and they really need to invest in something sturdier than wood with all the shaking and rattling that happens to their home.

Jehan slides down the bannister, expertly leaping off the smooth wood and running to the door without losing momentum. Upstairs and around the house Courfeyrac can hear the footsteps of his housemates as they rush to see who’s calling on Jehan.

It’s a boy, about waist high, with flyaway hair and eyes that take up most of his face. He looks like he could be plucked up and tossed by the wind if it picked up enough, and long swirls of blue ink can be seen running down his arms and up his neck.

Jehan doesn’t step out and he doesn’t invite the boy in, but he leans against the door jam and crosses his arms over his chest, looking curious and casual. “What do you have for me Gavroche?”

“There’s a trio in the South Wood.” he says, voice carrying like the sounds of revelry across the marsh, through the trees.  _Will-o-wisp_ , Courfeyrac thinks, and knows then why Jehan doesn’t let the boy inside. “A Baba Yaga sister duo and their  _seaimpín_ , I think - a protector champion. They settle neutral disputes mostly, minor territory infringements, but they’re strong enough to alleviate some of it if the stories are true.”

Jehan nods, pulling a slip of parchment from his pockets and handing it to the boy. The child passes his hand over it, slow and even, and when he hands it back there are small green letters printed on one side. “My tithe, then?” He asks.

A leather bag is tossed between them, and Gavroche doesn’t even open it to check what’s inside, just tucks it away somewhere, tips an imaginary hat at a jaunty angle, and leaps from their porch, bursting into a ball of light and drifting quickly down the incline of the hill.

“What’d you give him?” Bahorel asks while Jehan closes the door, holding the paper carefully between glove covered fingers.

“That is between he and I.” He says mysteriously, and flattens the paper on a nearby table. The group gathers around, peering down at the tiny tilted writing.

“… What does that even  _say_.” Bossuet asks, peering carefully over Joly’s shoulder. It’s in a language none of them can really read - it shivers and shifts on the paper, letters moving about at random, and Jehan huffs in annoyance.

“It’s directions through South Wood, mostly.” hums Jehan, spinning the paper this way and that. “And a warning, and a comment.”

“What’s he warning us of?” Pipes up Combeferre. He’s looking down his nose to see through his glasses, frowning at the moving symbols.

“The normal things. Lions, tigers, bears - a particularly gnarled bridge troll who finds travelers tasty.”

“Well that’s pleasant.”

“Indeed.”

—

No one’s willing to stay home for the trip to South Wood. Feuilly has to be taken with them this time, now that they know his curse won’t be able to be lifted by the one who delivered it. They have to bundle him up in the back of their smallest covered cart, swaddled in as many blankets as they could get around him. He drifts in and out of half-consciousness, mumbling incoherent things as they bump along the wagon road that leads South. Jehan and Combeferre sit on the cart bench, wrapped up in scarves against the nippy wind while the rest of them sit in the back, equally layered in fall clothing.

The trip is long and cold, even with the cart flaps tightly closed. A light rain spatters the treated canvas and wind buffets the sides. Teeth chatter and goosebumps rise, and the only one who doesn’t appear to be affected is Grantaire, who sits wrapped around Feuilly in the center of the cart. A light steam rises from him and the heat he radiates keeps their feet warm.

Feuilly, for once not twitching and mumbling in his sleep, tucks his nose against Grantaire’s neck and breathes deeply.

Up next to the front cart flaps Enjolras snuggles into his fall jacket and gloves, pressed shoulder to hip to knee to ankle with Courfeyrac.

They breath deep the warm damp air, and Courfeyrac tilts his head on Enjolras’ shoulder.

Outside, the South Wood looms closer and closer, cloaked in heavy fog and trepidation.

—

The home of the Baba Yaga and their champion is… organic looking. It looks like its been carved out of a hill, its roof sporting a mass of tall grass and a short, fruit bearing tree. Long black chicken’s legs fold beneath it, talons buried in the dirt. A series of steps lead from the end of the path to the elevated door, and Grantaire eyes them critically.

“Bahorel, could you Carry Feuilly up?” He asks, shifting the blanketed bundle in his arms. Bahorel takes him gingerly, like he might disappear held on too tightly.

They trail up the stairs, Grantaire at the head with the parchment in his hand. He knocks, three times, twice, and then three again, as instructed by the paper, and waits.

A thin woman answers the door, her brown hair short and fuzzy with the moisture in the air, her face drawn. She has large white eyes and pockmarks on her cheeks, and her skin is leather brown and wrinkly. She jingles as she shifts from foot to foot, looking past him at the line of people clogging the steps.

“Well, come in then.” She says, voice gravely and scratchy, and he troops inside. It’s warm and dry within the house, and larger than it appears from the outside. A hulk of a man sits in a corner by the furnace, carving a long wooden stick. In the opposite corner sits a woman coated in shawls, hair a tornado of white. Twigs and bells stick out at odd angles, and he thinks that there might be a bird’s nest there. She eyes him, hunched over a mountain of yarn, long, bony fingers clicking huge knitting needles at a furious pace.

“Not you.” The first woman says, and Grantaire turns to see who she’s stopped.

Jehan stands on the first step beyond the door, caught mid-motion of ducking to get through the doorway. He looks shocked, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, but straightens out and remains outside.

Everyone else is in the house.

“Remove your glamour ” She continues, eyes narrowed. He can see her hand on the door, the knuckles of her fingers white with tension.

“Grantaire didn’t have to. Neither did Feuilly.” Jehan says, but he doesn’t sound plaintive - these are the facts and he is curious about her reasons.

“The dog and the serpent are - are.” She frowns, looks back at them with her big pale eyes, and goes on. “Their glamours are eating themselves. Yours has only just begun to. Disrobe.”

He tilts his head in acquiescence and passes his hands over his face, his image fraying and splitting as he goes. The magic seems to tear away from him like old fabric, pooling at his feet in ripples before turning to dust and sweeping itself from the step and out into the wind.

Unadorned, Jehan looks like every fae stereotype brought into acute focus.

He is tall, taller now than he was just moments ago. Ram’s horns curl from his head just above large, sharply pointed ears. His hair is fire black, like there’s red waiting just below the first layer of thick, straight locks. It highlights the paleness of the inside of his arms - fawn brown where the outside is almost black.

From beneath brows that look like thistles, great, slanted yellow eyes look out at them.

“Now may I enter?” He asks, and Grantaire closes his eyes at the feel of it - Autumn and the last dying breaths of the fire season underscore his voice.

“Now you may enter.” Says the Baba Yaga, stepping aside. It looks like Jehan has to almost bend in two to get through the door, but he does, and from the corner of his eye Grantaire can see his tail tuck itself away.

The group mills about awkwardly, trying not to stare - at Jehan, whose face is sharp and feral even relaxed, a cutting sort of beauty; at the Baba at the door and her jingling, the way her nose curves beak like from her face; at the other Baba at the table, glaring and knitting furiously, a fat brown marsh tit roosting in her hair; at the man in the corner, who, with more furtive glances, has pebbles and tiny gems encrusted in the skin of his arms and above his eyes.

“We come seeking assistance.” Jehan says, sweeping through the crowd to rest a hand on Feuilly’s cloth covered shoulder. His long robes look like fabric, but as he moves the fact that they are large petals is made clear. Spiderwebs cling to his hair and down his arms like silk.

“We know.” The knitting one says, eyes flashing. “The Wisp-boy told us. What will you give us for the deed?”

“ _Simplice_.” The other chides, moving in a cloud of bell noise to the fire. She says nothing else, but her sister huffs and her bird shuffles. In the corner, the man snorts.

“What has been done to him?” Simplice asks, kinder this time. She rises from her seat creaking like old wood, and moves forward. She, unlike her sister, makes no sound, and glides where the other shuffles and stumbles. Even the bells in her hair don’t move.

“He has been cursed.” Combeferre says, stepping forward. He looks calm and collected, but Grantaire has seen him in negotiations enough to recognize the set of his shoulders and the pinch of his mouth. At his sides are Courfeyrac and Enjolras, looking determined and focused.

For the first time since he smelt blood on the air almost a month and a half prior, Grantaire feels like there may be hope.

“Montparnasse told us that he delivered it, but he did not make it. And neither Jehan nor Grantaire can remove it.”

Both Baba Yaga look at him then, Simplice from her place by Feuilly and her sister from the fire. They look haunting, haunted, haggard even - their cheekbones and foreheads highlighted, reminiscent of ghouls.

“Set him down then.” She says, gesturing to the center of the room. Bahorel does so with great deliberation, and the group huddles in one corner.

“Simplice, Fantine.” This comes from the mountain man, his gaze locked on the Baba Yaga as they pace a circle around the blanket bundle that is Feuilly. They look at him, worn faces wrinkled with concern, but all he says is, “Be careful.” before falling silent once more.

For a time that’s all they do - pace, first in one direction, then another. Simplice’s titmouse abandons them to sleep fully enshrouded in her hair, and Fantine’s bells go quiet the longer she walks.

And then they start to speak.

They start out as mist or fog - light, whispering words that make the hair on a man’s arms stand on end. Then rain, a steady mantra of sounds that tease the senses and the attention, calling shadows to life and sparking eyes in dark corners. The longer they pace the louder they become, until, as thunder, their words are shaking the house and the bones of everyone present. Jehan and Grantaire narrow their eyes but do not close them - Joly’s are squeezed so tightly shut he looks like he might faint. Bossuet covers his ears, while Bahorel and Enjolras watch, enchanted.

Courfeyrac has both Combeferre an Marius’ hands in his.

They rumble and they roar for what seems an age or a heartbeat and then -  _crack_  - Fantine snaps, an old tree falling in the depths of the wood. Soon after -  _crack_  - Simplice sparks like lightning. Both their chants fade until they are the internal rumblings of earthquakes, and it’s not bones but hearts and souls that shake and shiver with their words.

As one they reach out above Feuilly, hands plunging into a writhing mass of smoky red that hisses like a kettle, fingers gripping tight the fog of the curse. Together they jerk, arms wrenching and heels digging in, fighting the magic before them. In tandem their hands come free of the cloud, dripping blood red, something slick and fat wrapped around their fingers and palms.

The cloud hisses and wails, fading like a dream.

Silence reigns in the aftermath of their magic, the Friends watching as they dunk their hands in a bowl of fire that the mountain man brings them from the hearth. They murmur quick, “Thank you Valjean”s and blow on their fingers, smoke rising from freshly darkened flesh.

It’s Fantine who breaks the silence.

“We could not remove it all.”

And the breath bursts from their lungs like each one of them has been punched.

Except for Grantaire and Jehan.

—

Feuilly is tucked against Bahorel’s chest much more firmly this time, his fingers lacing with the folds of the blankets. Now he holds him as if someone is going to take Feuilly away, and the light in his eyes says he’ll fight whoever dares to come to close.

Across from him in the circle they’ve made on the floor, Grantaire props his chin in his hands and feels the smooth catch of scale edges on skin. From the hearth Fantine watches him like a hawk.

“As we said,” Simplice is saying, back to knitting in her corner, “we were unable to remove all of it. However,” she eyes them over her needles, clicking pointedly, “we were able to take away the worst of it.”

“It should no longer progress.” Fantine chips in, stirring tea. “Without the aggressive malignancy that drove it to break down his magic and drive him back into his natural form - wherein it would have gone inside and devoured him in much the same way a dead body devours itself without interference - he should now be able to fight it off well enough with his own magic.”

Everyone looks aghast at the idea of Feuilly’s body turning on itself in such a way, but there’s relief too, in knowing that something so devastating is considerably less likely to happen.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t still be there.” Simplice says, voice drawn and irritated. Her needles bite into the yarn as she works. “It’ll linger, like an old wound, and if he ever dares to use more magic than he normally does, or change back for too long a time - well.” She glares at the bowl by the fire where they’d washed their hands of the curse. “There’s no telling what it would come back as.”

“Does this mean… we have to find the one who made it?” Marius asks. He’s been huddled up with Joly and Bossuet since they’d all decided that they really needed to sit down, and he looks pale in the firelight.

Simplice, Fantine and Valjean all trade looks of speculation and resignation over their heads, communicating silently among themselves.

“Unfortunately so, boy.” Valjean replies, rock-like hands juxtaposed against the tiny tea-cup on his palm. “If you want it gone for good, that is.”

“We do.” Joly says, and the group nods like heavy headed flowers. “Now that you’ve handled it, could you, maybe, tell us who crafted it?”

This time Fantine and Simplice look from Feuilly to Jehan to Grantaire, and the hair on Grantaire’s arms straightens up. His skin is suddenly too cold, and he feels like he’s speaking the words as they are, voices solemn and somber and low. Ocean low. Bedrock low. Underhill low.

"The King of the Unseelie Court, Felix Tholomyès.”

Now,  _now_  the air leaves him, and he fears his lungs won’t ever work again.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, this was a prompt fill for the absolutely radiant [lapieuvrebleue](http://lapieuvrebleue.tumblr.com/). The Prequel can be found [here](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/post/52105701753/hello-if-i-can-ask-for-a-prompt-then-what-about-les), Part One is [here](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/post/65631929227/like-fire-and-powder) and Part Two is [here](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/post/66517585695/as-they-kiss-consume), those places being on tumblr. I'm not entirely confident in this one, but I tried removing some of the bulk and it got worse so >.> This one makes me nervous, but I hope you like it!
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/) sometime!


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